


love sticks sweat drips

by moonboots



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 06:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18047273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonboots/pseuds/moonboots
Summary: Fists and feelings. Maybe more of one than the other.





	love sticks sweat drips

**Author's Note:**

> So. This ship, huh. Obligatory note that Servants get to make terrible medical decisions.
> 
> Big thanks to Ammie and everyone else who gave me a hand with betaing!

“HAAH!”

He knew it was over from the moment he got a firm grip on Shuwen's collar, even before he slammed the man to the floor hard enough to bounce. Li Shuwen had been a human of no magical talent; for all his finely honed skill, he didn’t have the durability of a man who had wrestled beasts.

Still, he'd worked for it. Beowulf leaned on his knees and spat blood on the floor. Spitting hurt, and he pressed his tongue against a tooth that stung and wobbled. Goddammit, that was going to be a pain for the next few days. Lucky thing his torso was a mess of reddened scars already and nobody would notice a few more scrapes. Maybe he'd be able to avoid the attentions of that nurse.

“How's that?” he laughed. “And you said you'd floor me every day!”

There was no answering groan.

Belatedly, Beowulf looked up. Shuwen hadn't moved.

“Ah, crap…” It hadn't been enough to kill, he was sure of that. He must have been too eager to seize the opportunity. Staggering over, he took in the damage.

The martial artist looked a lot less threatening collapsed in a bloody heap. His face was red from the nose up. The impact must have split his scalp, though Beowulf couldn't see the cut in Shuwen's shock of crimson hair. Beowulf would have felt bad about it if Shuwen hadn't left him in about the same state more than once early on. The both of them had earned several earfuls about sparring to the point of needing medical attention.

There was an art to pulling punches, and it turned out they both sucked at it.

“Come on,” he sighed, nudging the limp body to no effect. Unconsciousness always made someone look so much worse. “Damn it.”

At least he was light.

He and Shuwen were usually well-matched. Beowulf was stronger and tougher, but Shuwen was faster and his techniques allowed him to deal devastating blows. Sparring was tricky when the both of them excelled at one-hit kills--Shuwen through finely honed technique and Beowulf through towering strength.

And, of course, neither of them knew when to quit. Now that he was limping down the hall with Shuwen unconscious over his shoulder, Beowulf could acknowledge that they probably should have called the spar twenty minutes ago.

But who the hell called victory after something that was barely a hit? Sore enough to feel it but still standing was the point when a fight just got good and he knew Shuwen felt the same--he was always pouty after they called a spar “appropriately”. He’d insist on going off to practice his forms alone to cool down, but when they had a nice drag-out brawl that left them battered and barely standing they’d haul their carcasses down to Beowulf’s room and Shuwen would indulge his mead until the both of them passed out in a healing coma. It was great.

Chaldea was _boring_ between the isolated turbulence of the singularities. If not for Shuwen he would have gone genuinely insane waiting around months for the science types to finish calculating the mystery coefficient of existence or whatever the hell let them access the irregularities of history. He had to let loose and the simulation room was only good for so much.

...and he was banned from the simulation room for another week after busting a hole in the wall, anyway.

He could hear voices from the rec room. Neither was female, which at least meant that neither was Nightingale. Maybe they could point him to someone useful.

“So lance guys beat sword guys? That doesn't make sense.”

“It's reach. Strategy.”

“I don't buy it. Sabers are supposed to be better all around. Take the Lancer with the Saber, I'm sure it'll work.”

“There's a forecast window that says it doesn't! Either pay attention or stop distracting me!”

Robin Hood was sprawled out on the couch, El-Melloi II cross-legged on the floor. They were both focused on the television screen, watching one of El-Melloi's colorful games unfold.

“Yo,” Beowulf greeted.

El-Melloi didn't stop playing.

“Hey.” Robin sat up just enough to see over the back of the couch. His eyebrows shot up. “Oh damn, you won? Nice. But, uh, he's dripping.”

Beowulf turned around to find a trail of red drops following him in from the hall. “Son of a bitch.”

“And maybe hauling him around like a sack of grain isn't helping.”

With a growl, Beowulf dragged Shuwen off his shoulder and leaned him against the back of the couch, slumped against Beowulf's chest like a drunk. It wasn't an unfamiliar position; Shuwen couldn't hold his liquor for shit. “Look, could you just tell me if you've seen a healer around? Like, Mar--” Wait, no. Martha would definitely be furious with the both of them and wouldn't even have the decency to settle it with a fight. “Uhh…”

Finally, El-Melloi deigned to look up from his game. Incredible how he managed to stare down his nose at Beowulf from a sitting position. “I was under the impression Nightingale told you that if you ended up in her infirmary for sparring again that...what was it? Your entrails would be your extrails?”

“Could have sworn it was something about manually repossessing all the mana you've wasted,” Robin volunteered.

“I believe she said she would perform a 'four thousandth-term abortion’.”

“You're a riot,” grumbled Beowulf, who had tuned out the nurse’s rant and was not sure they were lying to him. They probably were. Right? “Don't you have any empathy? Injured man, here.”

“I'd have empathy if this wasn't your own fault.” Still, El-Melloi glanced at Shuwen. “Try Medea Lily. The kitchen. She won't cover for you, but she'll feel bad enough to help. Now, do you mind? This is a fog of war chapter and I need to concentrate.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” Beowulf bit off. Robin waved a lazy hand in farewell, immune to the acid as he turned his attention back to the screen.

Grumbling, Beowulf hauled Shuwen up again. He did at least try to be delicate this time around, letting Shuwen's head rest against his shoulder. In spite of what some people might say, Beowulf _did_ have a sense of responsibility.

Around a corridor away from the rec room, Shuwen jerked in a sluggish flail. Beowulf slowed.

“Whoa there. You knock me down and we're both gonna be stuck out here.”

The mask of dried blood across Shuwen's face cracked as his eyes slid open. He stared up at Beowulf for several long seconds, then muttered a curse.

Beowulf grinned. “Remember saying you'd knock me on my ass every day this week?”

Shuwen only grunted and struggled to sit up. He looked awake enough, so Beowulf set him down.

Or, tried to. His legs folded and Beowulf grabbed him around the waist, steadying him. “Easy.”

“...quite the hit.” Shuwen gave a raspy chuckle. “I'd rather be walking under my own power, but well done.”

Turned out that smashing a man's head against a cement floor was a great recipe for unconsciousness, Servant or not. “Wasn't supposed to be _that_ well done. I guess you've gotten back up and beat my ass so many times I wanted to make sure it stuck.”

“It stuck.” Shuwen raised a shaky hand to his head, gingerly feeling for the cut. Half fallen from his ponytail and half matted with dried blood, his hair was even more of a mess than usual.

“Melloi told me where to find someone to glue you back together.” He took a step, but Shuwen didn’t.

“Don't mind that. I'll sleep it off.”

Beowulf frowned. Sure, the steady stream of mana from Chaldeas could have a Servant up and about after a few days of solid rest, but… “You sure you don't want healing? That kid Medea can fix you up easy.”

“Mmm.” Shuwen shifted like he was testing his weight, then gave up and went back to leaning on Beowulf's arm. “It’s fine.”

“I don’t get it, but whatever.” They looked like a pair of drunks slowly shambling down the hall. It probably would have been faster to carry Shuwen, but he knew better than to offer.

Shuwen hummed again, sounding thoughtful. He raised his head and looked sidelong with an expression Beowulf couldn’t quite read. “Do you remember what hunger feels like? Have you ever missed it?”

“The hell are you talking about _?_ ” And what kind of madman would miss _hunger_? Of course he had never been hungry as a Servant--but missing it? The spectre of lean winters had ever haunted him as a king. There was nothing all his battle prowess could do to stop bad harvests and thin game. Living without hunger was a freedom.

“The first bite after a hard day--nothing tasted better.” Shuwen gave a wistful sigh. “Even rice was like the finest meat. Eating isn’t the same without hunger.”

Servants _could_ eat. Chaldea even had its fair share of talented chefs. But…Beowulf had to admit it wasn't the same feeling as returning from a hunt, ravenous and burning with exhaustion. He remembered the sheer elation of satisfying that hunger with warm bread, sweet mead, rich beef--a need perfectly fulfilled.

And not something he would ever experience again.

“Fasting helped my focus.” Shuwen continued as if he'd spoken. “Knowing my body's needs and putting them aside. In training, I would not know my weak points until pushing myself too far. Having a body this durable is...something of a disadvantage, in that sense. There are no needs to speak to me.”

“...huh. I thought I'd hit you too hard, but I kinda know what you mean.” Grendel. The beast's mother. The fire drake. Beowulf preferred not to cloud his fights with introspection, but he could not deny that his wounds always taught him something. He just hadn't thought of it like that before.

“On a different subject,” said Shuwen. Now what? “did you know that I died undefeated?”

Beowulf smirked. “I remember hearing that. Poisoned because nobody could beat you in a straight fight--you sounded like a real demon.”

“Hah. Thanks.” They came to Shuwen's room and Beowulf helped him shuffle to the bed--more like dropped him into it. He slumped bonelessly to his side. It was like hitting the sheets had drained the rest of his energy. “But what I meant was…” His eyelids fluttered. “I don't remember the last time I felt like this. I’m not sure I ever have.”

Covered in dried blood, he painted a ghastly picture against the plain white sheets. “That really a surprise?” said Beowulf as he went to the bathroom and helped himself to a washcloth and the first aid kit. Shuwen had dragged his ass out of the training grounds more than once, after all. “A hit like that would have killed a human.”

“Hmm.” Shuwen sounded genuinely contemplative as his eyes drifted shut. “Dizziness, headache, seeing spots. It's like all the worst parts of being drunk...plus, my skull might be fractured.”

“Yeah, that's a bad thing.” Beowulf sat next to him on the bed. Shuwen jolted like he'd already forgotten Beowulf was there, then winced as his whole body disagreed with the motion. Beowulf knew it was easy to push through pain while you were still on your feet--once you relaxed enough to let your guard down, it was another matter. “Easy. Lemme just make sure you're not still gushing blood. You _could_ bleed all night and live, but the nurse would kill me and Master would probably let her.”

There was a glassy, distant cast to Shuwen’s eyes as he gazed up at Beowulf without saying anything. The adrenaline wearing off, Beowulf thought. He’d managed an impressive ramble in the hallway, but the sheer damage was catching up with him.

Alright, he did feel a _little_ bad for putting him in this state. He hadn't realized he was gonna give the guy his first concussion. Shuwen might have pulped his intestines once or twice, but he'd gotten healing for that right off. Even if he did kind of get what Shuwen meant about pain, leaving him alone in a bloody heap didn't feel right.

Beowulf reached around to pull out Shuwen’s hairtie. At least his wits weren’t totally lost--Beowulf would have been quickly nursing a broken wrist otherwise. Beowulf tried to work the tie out as gently as possible, but he could feel Shuwen's every twitch and choked-off hiss when he tugged the battered flesh.

“My bad, my bad,” muttered Beowulf. His hands felt far too big for this kind of delicate work. Shuwen had skidded when he hit the floor and the cut was more of a long, ragged tear. There wasn't much he could do about the blood matting Shuwen's hair, but the wound was still oozing sluggishly.

Scalp wounds really were a bitch. Beowulf couldn't figure out how to wrap it without turning Shuwen into a mummy from the neck up, so he did his best to stem the bleeding with gauze and wipe away what he could. Shuwen's ragged breathing was the only sound in the room.

It stuttered again when Beowulf wiped his face. Shuwen blinked rapidly, eyes skittering towards him. “You look like complete dogshit,” said Beowulf by way of explanation. He held Shuwen's chin to keep his head steady while he traced the washcloth against his hairline and dipped it beneath the curve of his brow.

“Kaha--ngh.” Shuwen closed his eyes, swallowed. His face was pale and pinched under the blood. “Yes. I can believe that.”

“Still want to tough it out for enlightenment?”

Scrambled brain or not, Shuwen cracked an eye open with a flat glare.

“Right, right.” Beowulf sat up, rubbing at a neck cramp. Shuwen's clothes were still bloody, but overall he looked less freshly murdered. “That's it, then. You'll live.”

When he shifted to stand, Shuwen's hand landed on his wrist. “Wait.” Beowulf did, and Shuwen looked at him beseechingly. There was an awkward pause as Beowulf failed to read his mind. Shuwen sighed in defeat. “Could you...my shirt…?”

“Yeah, sure.” At least the guy was admitting that sitting up was probably out of the question at this point. Beowulf made short work of the ties and pushed it over Shuwen's shoulders. Shuwen arced his chest to let Beowulf pull it out from under him, then collapsed with a groan as if he’d fallen from a height much more than half an inch. He looked like he was finally feeling the aches, lying there limp and covered in mottled bruising.

Beowulf tossed the shirt to the floor. “All set,” he said as he stood.

“I think I understand now,” mumbled Shuwen.

“Understand what?” Beowulf waited for him to go on, but he stayed quiet. Apparently Shuwen was at the incoherent muttering stage of head injuries. Fine by him--that meant it was a great time to go. Maybe he’d come back tomorrow and make sure the guy wasn’t meditating too hard.

As he turned to leave, a quiet call came. “Hey, Beowulf.” Shuwen looked barely awake. “Come by tomorrow. I'll make tea.”

“...sure?”

“Good.” Satisfied, Shuwen let his eyes shut.

Well, at least now he knew Shuwen wanted the company. Beowulf rubbed his sore jaw, popped his shoulder. He could do with a good rest himself. “Later.”

The door closed.

In the darkness, Shuwen’s eyes stirred behind their lids. “Hey, Beowulf.” This time his voice was too soft to carry. “I think I want to fight you every day.”


End file.
